


The Best Medicine

by urriael



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Begging, Body Worship, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hair Braiding, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Neck Kissing, Praise Kink, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29507046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urriael/pseuds/urriael
Summary: Rather than Nennekke having Iola comfort an injured witcher, she recruits a dear old friend.(ye olde witcher bath fic)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 123





	The Best Medicine

“Mother Nenneke does have her favorites, doesn’t she?” Dandelion snickered as he pushed past the heavy oak door of Geralt’s room. The bedchamber was larger than the priestesses’ cells, complete with a small hearth, several chairs, and a four-poster bed with an, albeit rather faded, fur thrown over it. But the centerpiece of the room was not something usually adorning a bedchamber: a heavyset, steaming tub loomed in the middle of the space. Chairs and tables were haphazardly moved out of its path, giving off the appearance that the smaller furnishings were fleeing from the wooden goliath.

“Shut it.” Geralt stepped through the door and let the lock slide closed behind him. His catlike eyes darted over the tub, the bed, and finally Dandelion before fixating on a suddenly incredibly interesting knot in the floorboards. 

Dandelion's heart twinged at Geralt's unrest, but he grinned despite the ache and set his pack next to the bath. Best to be humorously direct, it seems. 

“Is someone a bit shy that a temple full of gorgeous, beautiful damsels all know that Geralt of Rivia, the famed White Wolf, has been medically prescribed a certain guest to, hm, alleviate his tensions?” Dandelion’s eyebrows jumped along to his words, his smile growing larger with each passing second. He pulled one of the chairs, a dark wooden thing with a curved back, against the side of the bath and sat in it. He rummaged through his bag, meticulously sorting through dozens of multicolored bottles, setting some aside while emptying the contents of others into the water. The room soon filled with the pleasant aroma of chamomile and lavender. The bathwater fizzed and tinted purple. "There's no shame in doctor's orders, Geralt. Besides, without that old priestess's faith in yours truly, I probably wouldn't have gotten past the temple's gates." Dandelion chanced a glance at Geralt, whose eyes had now shifted to the carvings of the bed frame. "But I wanted to see you, old friend. Nevermind the circumstances.”

"’Circumstances’ is a funny way of putting it."

"Well, what would you call this?"

The witcher huffed and snapped his head over to Dandelion, his grimace momentarily flashing his sharpened teeth. "I don't need anything, Dandelion. I'm fine. I've dealt with worse than a Striga bite."

The bard raised an eyebrow at that.

"My shoulder is practically healed,” he continued. “I could have gone on my merry way weeks ago."

Dandelion finished stirring the now foaming water with a practiced hand before standing and stepping up to Geralt in a single, fluid stride. His eyes now flickered with concern. "They don't need me for your physical wounds, Witcher." 

Geralt met Dandelion's gaze, his eyebrows knit close together, as if they were colluding, debating over a response. He went for his typical response to intense situations such as this and pulled the bard against himself, pressing their lips together. Dandelion chirped at the unexpected force of the witcher’s kiss but quickly recovered and soon was matching the intensity of Geralt.

Dandelion worked on Geralt's clothing while the pair kissed, managing to get the witcher to his underclothes before needing assistance. He whined and Geralt obliged, quickly slipping into the bath and away from the bard after peeling his final layers off. 

Dandelion blinked. A massive bandage covered the expanse of Geralt's shoulder, yellowed at its edges and dark red, nearly black, at its center. Almost healed, my ass, he thought to himself as he sat in his chair and made quick work of his doublet and undershirt, exposing his limber form. The troubadour paused, grimaced, and then gently unwound the cloth wrapped over Geralt. "Melitele's tits!" The wound was deep and vast, mostly composed of two sickenly large holes surrounded by dozen other, hauntingly human, teeth marks. "That thing nearly ate you!"

"I lived, didn't I?" The witcher grumbled as he crossed his arms. Defensive, as always. 

Dandelion gave an exacerbated sigh and pecked Geralt's cheek. "Unfortunately." His fingers slid into the witcher's mane of tangled hair. "It would have made a delightful final ballad for you. Noble Geralt," Dandelion dramatically swayed for emphasis in lieu of his hands, his voice swelling to a wistful cry. "Struck down in his prime as he dutifully did his damnedest to uphold his valiant, honorable code." 

The witcher cracked a smile despite his best attempt at not encouraging Dandelion’s antics. "Fuck off, bard."

“You’re insufferable, Geralt. Insufferable!” He bent over to dig through his bag once again. “And dirty.” 

Dandelion pulled a wooden cup from the satchel, dipped it into the water, and poured the steaming contents of it over Geralt's head. Geralt swung around to face the troubadour, eyes murderous underneath a wet curtain of hair. 

Dandelion slapped his knee as he laughed at the soaked and angry cat in front of him, cup still in hand. "Okay, I'll be nice now, don't worry that handsome little head of yours." He gave a sheepish grin as Geralt reluctantly turned his back, silently allowing Dandelion to continue.

Dandelion ran a hand down the back of Geralt's neck and along his spine while he, now more withdrawn than mischievous, slowly poured the tinted liquid over the witcher. Silent, he repeated the motion several times until the desired effect, a satisfactorily doused witcher, was achieved.

“I don’t even think these ladies properly cleaned you when you arrived here.” Dandelion frowned at the microcosm growing in the witcher’s hair while pooling soap into his palms. His slender fingers slipped into the white mass, working up a sweet-smelling lather. Geralt sighed as his eyes closed. He wouldn't jump to admit it, but it was nice to have the practiced and skilled hands of Dandelion working on him. It was familiar. Void of expectation. Safe.

Geralt relished in the scent of lavender gently encasing him as Dandelion painstakingly took on the monstrous task of washing and brushing his mane. He could feel the care the troubadour was taking to ensure he did not hurt Geralt -- gingerly gripping a fistful of hair in one hand as to lessen the pull of the comb, expertly massaging oils and soaps into his scalp, avoiding old scars. 

“You should take better care of yourself, Geralt.” Dandelion murmured.

“There isn’t much point in me looking pretty. People like their monster hunter to look like he knows what he’s doing. They don’t pay me for the way my swords shimmer in the afternoon sun or my wonderful smile.”

“It’s not that. You just - you don’t care for yourself. Even beyond cosmetics, Geralt, hygiene could save your life. You know, the last thing you want is an infection to kill you weeks after you slay a Manticore or a Hirikka.”

“I don’t kill Hirkkas. They’re endangered.”

“Gods, you’re an insufferable old fool! I don’t have to be doing this, you know,” the troubadour grumbled as he continued to comb through Geralt’s hair, which was beginning to look more white with each moment. Geralt preferred not to consider it, but Dandelion knew he wasn’t being irrational. He had this aversion to treating himself kindly, an allergy to for once putting his own life into consideration. Besides, poets don’t live forever. At least not as long as a witcher. When he dies, who will be there to fuss over the famed witcher’s bruises and broken bones? Who will sh

The bard and the witcher sat in the comfortable, damp silence, Dandelion lathering Geralt’s hair a good few times and brushing till his comb ran through without protest, the witcher all the while sinking further into the foaming waters. He squeezed the excess water out with one hand, delving again into his back to procure a thin strip of fabric. Dandelion stretched out his fingers before getting to work on a braid a few girls back in Oxenfurt had taught him, his tongue peeking out between his lips as he concentrated. He fumbled on the complex weaving more than he would admit, but he felt secure in knowing the gentle pulls and grazes did nothing but help Geralt relax. At last, he secured his work with a quick knot of fabric, leaning back to admire his craftsmanship. Much better.

The bard thus bent over to place the cup down and retrieve a jar filled with a clear gel that Nenneke had insisted he used. He dipped his fingers into the container, wondering at the tingle it sent up his arm. Hesitantly, he smoothed the salve into one of the unsettling teeth marks. Geralt hissed in surprise at the sudden white pain blooming from his shoulder and jerked away from Dandelion, water splashing from the tub over its surroundings: chairs, rugs, and the troubadour himself. 

Dandelion jerked back his hand, clutching his wrist as if it were the neck of a rabid animal. "Shit, Geralt. Nenneke didn't tell me it would hurt. I'm sorry." His stomach clenched as he studied the now tensed back in front of him, scars misshapen from being pulled over taut muscle. He watched as those shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, as Geralt moved back to the bard, threw an arm over the side of the bath. Dandelion reflexively flicked an eyebrow upward as he looked over the bite. The edge where he had pressed the salve now looked significantly less angrily red and hot. 

"It only stings initially." Geralt's eyes languidly slid over the bard, resting briefly on the hand Dandelion was strangling. "I'm just surprised Mother Nenneke couldn't lend a spare priestess to give a witcher his medicine. Seems you were all she had available." 

Dandelion scoffed indignantly at the comment but still broke into a smile at the notion that Geralt had made fun of him rather than withdrawing from him. "I'll have you know, I studied volumes of medicine back in my day, sir Geralt of Rivia! Volumes!” His hands separated to form the outline of ridiculously large books that stacked upon one another into an enormous, invisible tower. “Tomes!”

Geralt gave one of those wolfish grins, fangs glistening. "I know, you're an educated man. Surely you could be a surgeon if you ever grew tired of the troubadour's life." Geralt's smile settled into a smirk but those yellowed eyes remained, surprisingly, playful. "Now, as a renowned healer, I humbly beseech you to apply the rest of that foul shit."

"Truly?"

"Just do your job, Dandelion. I'd like to get back to my supposedly relaxing bath.”

With this, Geralt settled back into his original position, waiting. Dandelion sighed, dipping back into the jar and gingerly coating the wound with his right fingers, his left hand instinctively coming up to run over the witcher's left arm, a small display of comfort and understanding. Despite his best efforts to remain composed, for Dandelion's sake if anything, Geralt still involuntarily jerked in pain at the salve. He was sweating and grimacing, fists balled until his knuckles grew white as bone. 

Dandelion thanked whatever god he could that Geralt couldn't see his twisted grimace. 

\-----

Dandelion combed the final knots from Geralt's hair. With his tongue sticking out in concentration, the bard sectioned off the white strands cascading before him and then began to weave them together. He hummed a languid melody unknown to Geralt -- most likely a new ballad -- as he worked. While many had been bedded by the bard, few had known the other skills those nimble fingers possessed, beyond the sounds they drew from instrument and person alike. Geralt found the corners of his mouth turning upwards while Dandelion gently braided his hair, thoughts gliding along to the rumbles and crescendos of the bard’s tune.

Geralt's hair now sat against his muscular back woven together loosely, whiter than it had been in months and glistening like prized silk.

"You're really quite pretty, you know," Dandelion murmured, so softly that the words would have been inaudible to the human ear.

The witcher gave a quiet grunt at the compliment but didn't protest. His eyes were closed and finally, Dandelion could spot no tension in Geralt's shoulders, no wrinkle on his brow, and no tightened jaw threatening to shatter teeth. 

Dandelion didn't so much as sigh but finally and truly exhale. He hadn't been sure if Geralt would get to this vulnerable point and had been half-convinced he would be leaving Ellander knowing he had only disturbed a troubled witcher in his seldom found rest. But now, Geralt seemed, thank the gods, content. And, even more bewilderingly, able to take a compliment.

Slowly, Dandelion slipped his hand from the tip of Geralt's hair to his unscathed shoulder, pushing his thumb into the tight sinew there. When Geralt sighed in bliss and melted into the touch, he bent down and over the Striga bite, dragging his tongue in a stripe over the witcher's neck, emboldened by the shudder he received. Dandelion moved over the expanse of skin, sucking and nipping at it. He was aware his efforts would leave no long-lasting mark, but he enjoyed the dare to try. He moved his attention just under Geralt's jaw and dragged his teeth over the flesh there when his companion let out a strangled groan, the sound desperate and short-lived -- Geralt silenced himself. Dandelion felt the witcher tense against him and he withdrew from the man's neck. Dandelion made eye contact with Geralt, whose features were now darkened with shame. Moreso, fear. Fear to feel pleasure, fear to make noise, fear to be seen as someone who needs. 

Dandelion paused his one-handed massage but kept his hand on the witcher's shoulder, aware complete withdrawal might make his companion think he suddenly grew disgusted. "Are we alright, Geralt?" 

Geralt opened his mouth, seemed alarmed when no noise came from it, and then closed it. 

"I can stop if you'd like. I can be gone from here in seconds if you so much as say, 'leave'."

Geralt briefly studied the ornate furnishings of the table sat behind Dandelion before shifting his gaze back to the bard. He stumbled through his sentence as if handpicking each word in a barren orchard. "I don't-" Geralt exhaled in frustration at himself. "I don't want you to stop." 

“Are you cer-”

“Yes, Dandelion.” The witcher was looking up at him, feline eyes glistening, piercing, begging.

Dandelion started at the intensity there and felt his cheeks flame. He quickly composed himself, pulling himself forward to press his chest to Geralt’s back and continue to work his shoulder. The witcher’s sigh of content emboldened him once again and he slowly slid his unoccupied hand, his right, over to the witcher’s neck and down his chest. He matched the motions of his hands together before focusing his attention on Geralt’s nipples, rubbing and pinching the sensitive skin. Geralt made a soft noise in his throat as his jaw clenched. 

Dandelion grinned at the witcher’s quiet but encouraging responses and bent his head down to drag his lips along Geralt’s stubbled jaw while his hands teased the witcher. 

Geralt writhed underneath Dandelion, back arching off of the rim of the tub. 

"Gods, Dandelion. Please." 

Dandelion’s fingers wandered further down Geralt’s torso until they wrapped firmly around his companion’s cock. The witcher’s breath hitched as Dandelion's well-practiced hand languidly stroked his length. There was no hurry in the movements, no need to rush his concerto. The bard’s remaining hand slipped over the scarred muscles of the witcher's physique, happily exploring the expanse and relishing the twitches and twists of the witcher's body as he prodded him. 

Geralt's head fell back against the rim of the bath as the feeling of pleasure from Dandelion's slow movements built, his fangs digging into his lip to quiet himself. He could smell his own arousal, feel the heat of want and embarrassment radiating from his skin, burning in the wake of Dandelion's damned hands. It had been more than a season since anyone but himself in quick, frantic necessity had touched him, and he was betraying this fact with each gasping breath, shudder, and mewl.

Unlike during the witcher’s usual solitary practices, Dandelion wasn't just working him to completion in an impersonal rush of near obligated release. His movements followed a steady tempo, paced and practiced. Geralt could feel those eyes slipping over his body; he was studying Geralt rather calmly as he worked, blue eyes glistening with delight at the responses he received with each adjustment of his wrist, each squeeze and stroke, each wet kiss dragged over an ear. He knew Geralt better than almost anyone, and he knew the witcher had been yearning for the comforts of another, even if he was reluctant to admit it. He could see it in those guarded eyes. His hesitancy to touch. But he also knew what Geralt's current burning silence and tensed frame meant. It wouldn't do. 

"My dear witcher, please." Dandelion's hand surfaced from the water, fingernails trailing over Geralt's chest, neck, and finally jaw. Water dripped over Geralt's chin as he prodded at closed lips momentarily and then slid his fingers into an already willing mouth. "Don't restrain yourself." Two of Dandelion's fingers pushed against Geralt's tongue in rhythm with his right hand still firmly working Geralt, satisfied in the noises now rumbling freely from the other man's throat. How obedient. He purred in satisfaction, rewarding Geralt by quickening his hand over the witcher’s dick. 

"You're so willing for me, Geralt." The bard whispered into the wolf’s neck between obscenely wet and loud kisses, kisses that pulled and nipped. "You make such pretty music for your bard. Such a good wolf." Dandelion groaned into a patch of hot skin and pressed a calloused thumb against the head of Geralt's dick, rubbing back and forth over the slit. "Such a good cock, too." The witcher's guttural responses now filled the room, his hips stuttering. "So responsive too, aren't we?" 

Geralt made a strangled noise, hands desperate to cling to something finding purchase on Dandelion's forearm. Dandelion obliged and withdrew his fingers from between Geralt's sharpened teeth, heart racing at the thin trail of saliva trying to pull him back. He wrapped his arm over the front of the witcher, who cradled the appendage against himself. The bard now looked as if he were playing a high octave on a bass, his figure stretching down over Geralt’s sturdy frame, one arm stretched southward while another wrapped around the body beneath him. 

"Dandelion," came the hoarse and broken voice of the witcher. "D-Dandelion."

In contrast, the bard's voice rang clear and calm, if a bit short of breath. "Yes, Geralt?" 

Geralt whimpered, twisting in the water. 

“Tell me, Witcher.”

The White Wolf grunted and pricked his sharpened nails into the forearm of the bard as he tightened his grip. It was hard to think over the heat of the bath and under the scrutiny of Dandelion. “I need,” he started, gasping out his response. “I need you. I need more of you.”

The bard smiled and moved his lips against his companion's ear, his hot breath and kitten licks making Geralt squirm. "I want to fuck you, Geralt," he growled. "Gods, I want to claim you." His right fist quickened and his left arm tightened its vice around the witcher, who was now pressing back into the bard, head thrown back and draped over his shoulder. His hips were thrusting along with Dandelion’s strokes and he was moaning with each exhale, completely gone, moments from release. It was always a sight to see the quiet, aloof Geralt so undone. "I want all of Ellander to know the White Wolf, the witcher barely bowed by a Striga, is helpless under my touch. You're mine." Dandelion's voice grew small, his lips pressed against Geralt's ear. "You're mine, Geralt of Rivia."

Geralt valiantly lasted a few final seconds under Dandelion's onslaught before he came, a deep growl as he clung to the troubadour's arm. The bard, purring in his throat, gave a few final strokes over Geralt as the witcher rode out his orgasm. Dandelion breached a hand to tilt the witcher's head to face him. He kissed Geralt, savoring the taste of sweat on his witcher's upper lip and relishing the feeling of Geralt's smile pressing into his own as their kiss gently deepened. Dandelion pulled back only when air became an unfortunate necessity, a lopsided grin adorning his features. He inspected his witcher and brushed a few loose strands of hair from Geralt's face, hand coming to rest against a cheek, thumb caressing the still flushed expanse. Dandelion shifted his gaze to Geralt's eyes. He hummed in satisfaction at the blown-out pupils floating in yellow that greeted him warmly.

"Your therapy may need to move to the bed, my dear witcher."

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote almost all of this in a haze of pure witcher craze so sorry if there are some rough bits. i tried to follow more of the characterizations and banter from the book, i hope i did okay!
> 
> thanks for reading!


End file.
